


Get a Hobby, Asshole

by BorkMork



Series: Ishvalan Reconstruction Act [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: But really though there is a lot of cooking, Gen, Ishval, Ishvalan Reconstruction, Mentions of War/Genocide/Trauma, Politics, Racism, There is going to be a lot of cooking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BorkMork/pseuds/BorkMork
Summary: Look here, Mustang.I know you’re busy with the current mission in Ishval and all, fine with me, but if I have to hear another letter from the team that you’re pushing yourself I’m going to have to come back over there to kick your sorry ass myself.You’re incapacitated and the Ishvalans don't need you being a stubborn asshole about it. Don’t be the type of person who worries people; just get a hobby for once. Cut some vegetables. Write some sappy poetry. I don’t care what weird stuff you do, just don’t worry the captain. Here are some recipes I’ve written for you. Make a good piece of banana bread for me when I come see you. Just stop making things difficult.-Edward Elric-Cooking never intended to be a part of Roy Mustang's plan to restore the Ishvalan Holy Land. It was a small detail in an ocean of progress, something to occupy him until he could get back to work, but maybe this was just what he and the captain needed?
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang
Series: Ishvalan Reconstruction Act [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071683
Comments: 17
Kudos: 26





	1. Ideation

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone.
> 
> So this fic is not going to be a one-shot like the others I'd produced. Instead, this fic is intended to be eight or seven chapters long. The reason why is that this story is going to revolve around the Ishvalan Reconstruction Act, and I plan, to my utmost capabilities, to stay respectful as I attempt to write a story on a race and culture that has numerous influences from different groups. Particularly, for my interpretation of Ishval, I'll be following the idea that the Ishvalans are routed in Middle Eastern culture — with some influences from Hindu, and a few others. I still harbor some creative liberties, particularly since Ishval is a fictional location, but I want to be transparent with all of you as I slowly update this fic. 
> 
> I am a human being, and I'm capable of making mistakes. So even if I do a lot of research into these specific topics, especially with the help of friends and mutuals who are Middle Eastern themselves, I will always be open to any concerns or messages as the story goes on.
> 
> Now that we have all of this out of the way, I'd like to thank [NewLense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewLense/pseuds/NewLense) and [priscilladm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/priscilladm/pseuds/priscilladm) for beta-reading this first chapter. It means a lot to me and I hope all of you enjoy!

_Look here, Mustang._

_I know you’re busy with the current mission in Ishval and all, fine with me, but if I have to hear another letter from the team that you’re pushing yourself I’m going to have to come back over there to kick your sorry ass myself._

_You’re incapacitated and the Ishvalans don't need you being a stubborn asshole about it. Don’t be the type of person who worries people; just get a hobby for once. Cut some vegetables. Write some sappy poetry. I don’t care what weird stuff you do, just don’t worry the captain. Here are some recipes I’ve written for you. Make a good piece of banana bread for me when I come see you. Just stop making things difficult._

_-Edward Elric_

* * *

Roy Mustang quirked an eyebrow at the letter's contents. His IV had been stitched up to his arm hours ago, and there wasn’t anything else he could do at the moment to pull himself up; not with the guards assigned to him, who amped up their persistence each time he insisted on working.

They damn made sure he couldn’t. Captain Hawkeye kept the work out of arm’s length, the nurses liked to lock the doors at night just to avoid him passing out in the hallways, and, to keep his stay comfortable, the temperature remained at the estimated four-point Celsius no matter what. Even at night, when the Ishvalan cold usually left him shivering from the sudden climate drop.

A simple heatstroke wasn’t going to kill him. He’d endured more grueling obstacles than that. Regardless, he preferred to stay on his best behavior whenever Hawkeye observed him.

“Sir, it’s best you take his advice.”

Clipboard in hand, the woman standing next to his bed was occupied writing things down. And he recognized, with utmost certainty, that Hawkeye understood what he was reading. She knew Fullmetal long enough to deduce what the letter said.

He frowned and placed the paper down onto his lap. “Traveling the world at the age of eighteen...and he’s already giving me lip for doing my job.”

“You know he’s worried about you.” She placed a few sheets into his hands. All of them were written in that ragged cursive Fullmetal loved to use now, and Roy could tell it wasn’t going to stop being the brat's favorite way to write anytime soon. “You've been over-exerting yourself lately instead of taking breaks."

Roy huffed. “Sounds better than getting killed." He had handled more life-threatening obstacles than the desert — even if that desert gave him restless nightmares. "Besides, what's with his insistence on food?" Sorting through the papers, he stared at the words that stood out to him.

_Cretan Beef Pasties._

_Xingese Banana Bread._

_Aerugonian Light-Creamed Zeppole._

“He doesn’t expect me to make these.”

“We both know Edward, sir,” Hawkeye answered. “He’s serious when he talks about such things, particularly in your current objective.”

For a moment he tried to recline, letting out a huge puff of air through his nose. Leave it to Fullmetal to give him homework, and one about baking treats or doing whatever unproductive thing he wanted, apparently. “You’ve got to be kidding, Captain.”

But he knew there was nothing to kid. 

Not from Riza Hawkeye. 

Not from Edward Elric. 

There was a legitimate deadline now — an openly ambiguous one at that — but it was better than sitting in a bed doing nothing. Despite the boy's passion, Fullmetal harbored seriousness on this matter. If he truly planned to arrive in Ishval there would be serious arguments with the kid if Fullmetal knew he wasn't taking it seriously. And the true threat was Hawkeye cleaning up the mess if he straight-up died as a result — which was unlikely, but a possibility nonetheless.

So Roy decided to go along with it. He fumbled with the papers, straightening them out on the makeshift table, and glanced through each recipe title.

_Rice cakes._

_Chestnut cakes._

_Cannolis._

“What counts as a ‘hobby’, anyway?” he asked, mostly to himself. “I’ll probably surprise him with some wood burnings if he’d prefer something trivial and pretty.”

“With your current situation, Edward will still be concerned.”

Roy looked at her. “Why do you say that?”

“Do you enjoy searing designs into the wood, sir? Edward might not be perceptive of your implications, but he won’t be satisfied if the quality is mediocre.”

He frowned at that. “Then I’ll increase the quality. Work on it until it’s nice and satisfying enough to get him to leave me alone.”

“Also won’t work.”

Roy pressed a finger to his temple, eyes still occupied by the words.

_Red bean paste._

_Seasoned Jelly._

_Mushi pan._

“Right, he’s the type of person who’ll never leave me alone. Not much objective reasoning to get me off the hook,” he said.

In the corner of his vision, she nodded. “Correct.”

“Great...just great.”

“You’re incapacitated, sir, you should take his advice.”

He tapped a finger against the pages idly. How could he? He had given himself this task to return Ishval to what it was prior, and the idea of standing back even with his working two legs was counterproductive, almost vitriol to think about. An entire race was counting on him to bring back what was once lost. He didn’t deserve a break. “There are men out there working to return the Ishvalans back to their holy land. I don’t think I _can_ heed his advice. If I do, I won’t be much use here.”

“Or is that an excuse to be harsh with yourself until you’re useless again?”

Roy didn't want to heed her response, but she was right. He already lacked action with the current incapacitation. He didn't want his captain to worry, least of all admit Fullmetal had a point.

_Pecan Pie._

_Coconut Cream._

"He sent a lot." Roy flipped through more, his exasperation growing with each new page and scratchy doodle accompanying the text. "Captain Hawkeye."

"Yes, sir?"

"Is Mus’ab in the region yet?”

She looked through her clipboard. “He should be arriving at eighteen-hundred in the Daliha projects.”

Roy smiled, fumbling with the gloves that fitted the surface of his bedside. “Good. Message his convoy that I want to meet with him. Preferably at nineteen-thirty.”

“But sir, you need rest.”

“I’m not going to be working myself to death, Captain,” he reassured her. Roy noted the ease of her shoulders as he continued. “I want to research something. Fullmetal might’ve just given us a solution.”

“A solution, sir?”

“I would be dishonest in saying our progress is linear.” When it came to culture, Roy had made sure to give all of the work and consultation through to the Ishvalans themselves. And yet, there was a surprising lag in the amount of cultural integration into the city itself. They had started on religious and government buildings, but anything relating to something simple such as cooking had flown over his head until now. “Elric’s suggestion might do us more good than he intended.”

Hawkeye didn’t respond much to that, for she was already writing down his request onto the lines. 

She left the room afterward, a guard taking her place. 

Roy hoped she would come back, but the mission he had was already set in place.

* * *

People pondered how close Brigadier General Roy Mustang and Grand Cleric Mus’ab were. 

The Promised Day didn't have a true name in the public eye. In fact, before the newspapers solidified what occured, Roy had an outline on what the Promised Day would be: an extinguished coup from the Briggs party and the Central Command’s upper echelon, a true travesty that remained stifled by the military's astounding speed and clean-up. Even when people asked for clarity, what remained clear to the public eye was that policies had been written. Important of all, the Ishvalans had been granted amnesty and were set to transition back into their holy lands.

The Amestrian public knew that for certain, even the ones who tried to look away; but knowing the insurrection and the past dealings between the two leaders, it wasn’t a surprise that others viewed their relationship as a forced joint venture, one where they both sought to rebuild from Amestris’s atrocities no matter the difference in race, upbringing, and transgressions.

Still, that didn’t mean Roy hadn’t talked to Mus’ab after the coup. He had many times. 

The big surprise was knowing that the scarred man who fought along the insurrection lines was alive. It was before he and his team took a step into the desert. They had been waiting at Central Station’s platform when he arrived, with Major Miles, a group of Ishvalans, and a massive sack in tow.

He had a new name, a new objective, and the smugness of Brigadier General Armstrong written all over him. After the Promised Day’s body count, his team had acknowledged that some of their allies — ones they knew for months, for years — would’ve been killed in the crossfire. But seeing the two alive was enough to cause a commotion, a few questionings, and Major Miles handing him a personal letter from the Armstrong herself.

It spoke of reconstruction. Restoration of the Holy Land. Passive-aggressive threats. The return of the Ishvalan people.

With the letter, Miles’s and Mus’ab’s intentions were clear, and Roy didn’t hesitate when it came to cooperation. It was better than relying solely on Amestrian academics and government workers, who knew nothing of the culture at hand.

The moment he and the team had set off in the caravans, Roy knew that reconstruction wasn’t going to be easy. The first time he arrived in the desert he threw up into a ditch. The first week, a crisis worker followed him and gave him medication while he trekked the sands; his captain had suffered the same, and usually, he made sure to check up on her when she wasn’t occupied. Their days were fogged with so many orders, observations, and meetings — an agency call at Daliha, a community conference in Gunja, settling a dispute between the many treasurers — that something simple as culture never crossed his mind. 

And, because of Fullmetal, an idea stirred. One he predicted Musʽab would partake in, if given the opportunity.

The sun scorched red on the horizon. Vehicles of different shapes and sizes — always a humvee or truck if he had the mind to take notice — roved through the station for the next pick-up and mission, leaving numerous tracks in the foot-trekked sands. It was the usual activity he’d find around the outpost, always active with resources being transferred and workers being sent from one place to another. After months of working with what he had, the bustle was reminiscent of background noise.

Roy passed through the numerous tents, a file bunched under his arms as he made his way toward the edge of the outpost. With each misstep, he took a quick swig from his canteen, knowing the captain was three steps behind him. Always.

The radios had reported a lack of storm and uplifts in the winds up north, so he anticipated the meeting with Musʽab to be clear, with no interruption.

“Sir, if you don’t slow down you’re going to pass out.”

“I’ll be careful, Captain,” he reassured her, watching her expression grow stern from the corner of his eye. They passed by a tent, where the Ishvalan Communications Division was temporarily bunkered, tinkering with the new set-up. The words — _Grand Cleric Musʽab_ , _Division Three_ — made him perk up. “It would be unwise of me to worry you now, would it?”

The acknowledgment in her eyes was fleeting but enough.

The makeshift post was established on the far-south border of the station. It was made of wood, implemented a month ago to keep workers from going too far into the sands, and Roy scanned the horizon beyond it, trying to find cargo tracks, or anything resembling activity.

A frown. “Damn, nothing there.”

“Try this, sir.” Hawkeye placed binoculars into his hands. After a quick thank you, Roy resumed reconnaissance.

There. He spotted it on the top of the farthest hillock. Dots moved down the incline, small like ants.

“Alert Block C. I’ll handle this,” he whispered. Riza quickly strode off to one of the buildings — one he recognized was near the mess hall. His voice grew level, and Roy directed a finger toward a nearby man. “Inform the sentries. Keep their eyes on the vehicles.”

The worker nodded, starting off—

“Also.”

The man stopped, looking at him with uncertainty. Roy smirked.

“Get the refreshments ready. The Grand Cleric needs a warm welcome.”

Moving down the dune, the vehicles disappeared behind another hillock then reappeared at its summit. Tiny blurs became patrolmen guarding the caravan’s sides, and the green specks on top of the vehicles turned into camouflaged tarps. It wasn’t like a terrifying caravan of Amestrian troops with their artillery. Far from it.

Upon further inspection, Roy was surprised to see that the head vehicle — the jeep — was in pasty white, as if it was painted over by hand. To conceal it into the sands, perhaps. Clever, if that was the case.

After a quick exchange with the convoy’s leader, Roy spotted the sight of the Grand Cleric. He had exited the jeep in full Ishvalan garb, decked with red sashes and carefully-pressed knots, his hair starting to strike out in a ponytail. Still the same aggrieved expression, but Roy liked to believe that it was the weather that made men cranky — he himself must’ve harbored the same pissed-off look when he started toward him.

Roy gave a bow. “Great to have you with us, Grand Cleric Musʽab.”

The man bowed. “Peace be upon you, Brigadier General Mustang. I thought I told you before that you could just call me Scar.”

He did, but Roy still had a part of himself that wanted to be respectful, trying for a silly attempt in absolution in spite of himself. “I’d rather go with your more appropriate name, but if you insist, Scar.”

An expression flashed in the taller man’s eyes — gone before Roy could confirm it. Mu’sab looked over at the encampment, attempting to squint through the sun’s rays. “Now, tell me. Why’d you bring me here?”

“Right to the point.” Roy motioned over to the encampment, where all the ‘festivities’ were being partaken. “Come this way. Refreshments are in the mess hall.”

They didn’t go over to the mess hall as Roy expected. Instead, Musʽab took to walking past the tents, almost as if what they were attending a small stroll through a garden rather than a governmental outpost. Roy relented, however. He had no meetings today because of the current change in schedules, so he might as well give Mus’ab the time to articulate rather than pressure him into a proposal that came out of nowhere. After a few minutes, Mus’ab spoke.

It was surprising to see him give an excuse for the mess hall refusal: his convoy had eaten in Daliha, and he preferred to keep his stomach light.

“Suffice to say, our water supplies were running short,” he admitted, grimacing. “So I must thank you, it is thoughtful.”

“You can pack up a crate to go. We’re getting more supplies through here anyway.”

Mu’sab peered at a few of his caravan’s men. They were at the station’s center, currently drinking water from the barrels supplied by Hawkeye and the rest. Most of them were Ishvalan, and with how exuberant their drinking was, they should be occupied for the next ten minutes. “We’ll not be greedy of such a quantity, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

Roy laughed, light and playful. “Well, you don’t need to be so modest.”

Mus’ab didn’t scowl at him, per se, but the seriousness in his tone was enough to make his chuckles die out. “What are you planning, Mustang?”

“Hm?” 

The man beside him appeared to observe him, scrutinizing him almost for an ulterior motive. Mus’ab had been like that even before they worked together; Roy had no clue if it was a natural look for him, or if he obtained it out of habit, but his countenance was telling enough as was.

Right. Cutting to the chase immediately.

There was no need to tiptoe around it then. 

“Reconstruction plans,” Roy said simply, puffing his chest a little as they walked together. He took another sip from his canteen. “I can’t work on the field until I get a week’s rest due to heatstroke.”

The man in front of him furrowed his eyebrows, a bit disgruntled. “That’s unfortunate. Did you bring me here to continue your duties, because if so—”

Roy shook his head, chuckling. It would be inappropriate to have a Grand Cleric bear an entire branch of paperwork onto his already-burdened shoulders. “No, no. But a certain hard-headed brat did give me a good idea, if you're interested in entertaining me.”

A grunt. “I won’t if you keep delaying.”

“Right.” He quickened his steps a little, offering the folder in his hand. “Here.”

Musʽab gently took it, opening the contents. “What is this?”

“I assigned Captain Falman to research any remaining documents about Ishvalan cuisine. What you’re currently looking through is under ‘Desserts’.” Roy leaned forward to see the articles the man was perusing. Mus’ab’s expression was indecipherable. “Baklava. Basbousa. Umm Ali. The next partition details cooking couscous, falafel, and other dishes you might be familiar with in your culture.”

The more Musʽab perused, the wider his eyes grew. His fingers flipped quickly between each written document. Each one had been researched, stapled, and clipped with pictures, extensive notes, until all of them were crisp, only missing a few details of their cooking process.

Musʽab took in a steady breath. "These are important pieces of Ishvalan cuisine," he agreed, more of a confirmation to himself than anything, "some vital to religious ceremonies and feasts. Only the clerics and priests know of such things. How did you get them?"

"Asked around the Ishvalan encampments," Roy answered. 

They stopped at the station’s border. Out there, in the endless sea of sand, were the city outlines from the Gunja Projects, vast, sweltering yet resilient in the desert heat. "And my men are very efficient about these types of missions. But besides that, I brought you here for this reason.”

The wind made Roy’s eyes water, and yet, seeing Mus’ab look at him with surprise rather than annoyance was enough to make it all worth it.

“I’ve talked to the Gunja Projects treasurer,” he continued. “He’s willing to discuss with us financially on recreating each recipe.” Roy grimaced to himself, trying not to chuckle. “He believes that Ishvalan cuisine could be quite a market, to kickstart the city economies earlier than expected.”

“By Ishvala...” 

Roy looked at him and followed his gaze out into the sands, at the skyline’s rocky mountains. His voice was steady, steady as the dunes: "If what you said is correct, then I’ll take part in it.” 

Mus’ab’s hands clasped lightly into fists, the determination beginning to flicker and grow more prominent in his eyes. To Roy, he didn’t know much about this man’s story — who he was prior, and what he saw with the proposal in his hands — but he could see the many reasons he himself took charge of this project, and why Roy started this journey in the first place. “I’ll do whatever’s required to preserve my culture.”

A moment passed. And another.

Eventually, Roy bore a sad smile, watching the sun’s sweltering horizon as if it was the last sunset he will ever see. "And to make sure it never becomes forgotten.”


	2. Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Projects mean compromises. Compromises mean discussions. And discussions mean battles of the passive-aggressive kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank [NewLense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewLense/pseuds/NewLense) and [priscilladm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/priscilladm/pseuds/priscilladm) for beta-reading this chapter.
> 
> Actually, to my surprise, this was the first part of chapter two since both betas had agreed that chapter two could definitely be split into their own chapters entirely. So because of that, you guys will get a scheduled posting on January 30 PST time. Hope that makes up for me missing a week!

Time hadn’t been on Roy Mustang’s side. With prior experience, he expected the project to be concise, quick to finish in an estimated three months. But that was a theoretical; the reality quickly corrected him, and brought him to a moment of clarity that told him of one thing: 

Food was a hard proposal to bargain for. After all, there were numerous projects to be seen under his belt, and creating the foundation would take more than just a few signatures and a handshake with a begrudging treasurer.

It wasn’t bad at first. Deep within the Gunja projects, Roy and Mus’ab identified their base of operations. It had a courtyard, dining halls, pantries, rooms for kitchens. The building was still close enough to the main roads for them to exit and enter without a problem. They could install electricity if they wanted.

All they needed were the cooking materials, and the current artisans to agree with the change of plans.

That was where the worries came in. On the one hand, these initiatives would never come to fruition without monetary support; on the other hand, financial backing often came with different motivations, ideologies, and priorities. And what Roy needed was the go-to, the signal to continue.

It happened on a sweltering morning, a day after his initial proposal. The Gunja outpost had cleaned itself up for the treasurer’s upcoming visit, and Roy knew to grow cordial when the treasurer’s jeep eventually made its way up the sands. 

The door popped open to reveal a slick-haired man and his two advisors. Escorted out by a band of workers, Roy kept himself close to them — spinning out flattery, like he usually did when it came to the higher-ups — as they made their way toward the sun-stained tent.

Mus’ab stood at the front as planned, eyes attentive when he opened the flap, revealing to them the sleek discussion table at the very center. There were a few fans in the corners and a worker to serve up drinks and food, but overall, this was a bargain that Roy experienced many times before. Where each player went to their assigned seats, steadied their gazes, and readied their papers under their palms.

Roy was an expert at negotiation. But this situation was different.

Spread out before him were the different players of the game: a Brigadier General with enough power to regulate different sects of the project; a Grand Cleric that embodied the morale and good-standings of the Ishvalan people; two advisors known to sweat over the smallest implications; and then they had Mister Bombarda, the Gunja Treasurer, the main opposer.

A few discussions started. Here and there, a remark, a laugh, some anecdote over political favor back in Central Bombarda had to deal with. Signs of significant standing, less of a leisurely stroll than what Roy wanted, but he was always up for a challenge — especially if the opponent himself liked to heighten his social standing by just a simple mention of “business”.

So Roy did what he always did: he listened. He listened to these men while the corner radio buzzed Amestrian cabaret, as the workers plopped food and drinks onto the table to endure the remainder of the negotiations. Roy always preferred the spectacle of good company, of comfort instead of excruciating heat.

It also allowed him a glimpse of the Amestrian government workers under specific circumstances: when they felt entitled, angered, or uncomfortable.

Mister Bombarda reacted as predicted the moment he came to the table. He had leaned back into his seat when the first entrée arrived, the chair protesting underneath the strain as words and questions flew out of his lips. His actions were enough to tell Roy what this man was like: domineering, speculative, happy to combat and ask inquiries like an entitled brat in an interview. The traits of a tired government worker, who’d been digging into Roy’s side for months on end. 

Then came the details of Roy’s side of the table, the true reasons for their meeting. Over the drinks, Roy recalled what tools they needed, who should be paid, what ingredients were to be gathered, but Roy preferred to keep his points short. He spoke of the basics, the general accommodations, because he knew that Mus’ab wanted to do the heavy lifting.

When the Ishvalan’s turn came around, he did just that. He discussed the ovens, the tandoors, the available choice cuts, and the menagerie of spices needed. He spoke of these subjects with control and ease, settling himself into the center of their discussions like an unbending chess piece. And the more he spoke, the more relieved Roy became, watching the advisors' exchanged glances like prisoners under scrutiny. Pulling the Grand Cleric into the fray was the best decision for the project.

Mus’ab knew what cooking entailed. He probably knew how to harvest plants, the shucking of corn, and the handling of lambs. What the meeting itself indicated was that the plan needed people who knew their way around the kitchen, and ultimately Roy didn’t fit the description at all.

Roy didn’t know how to cook. He knew how to boil water, to cut fruits and vegetables with steady hands, but anything else was like flipping a coin to decide his own fate. He preferred to buy takeout noodles, and when possible, invite Hawkeye over for dinner to save money for the both of them.

His hands weren't meant for that type of careful, precise work — they were destined to see effective action, one way or another.

Bombarda’s advisors occupied the seats next to him. Both were grim-faced and sweaty as the minutes passed by — the kind who honed into specific key terms, at the way Roy laughed jovially when they declined a suggestion, but Bombarda didn’t seem to worry. In fact, he had requested another drink from a server amid Mus’ab’s discussion. And that was dangerous.

Roy knew from the beginning that they had to be careful. Even with his position as Brigadier General, the politics of the post-Promised Day government weren't enough to legitimize his power. People had tested the waters, observed how mixed the morale had become throughout the population, and Roy didn’t want another lecture from Grumman anytime soon about putting too much stress on a leadership beginning to stand up from what the Führer described as a “pretty awful epileptic fit”. 

If Roy pushed too hard, agencies had the right to decline. If they relented too much, then government workers could treat him and his workers like rag dolls. Any misuse of money could tarnish future political endeavors down the line.

So at the sight of Bombarda’s lean, Roy knew that something was amiss.

“This is rather detailed, General.” The man placed his clipboard down. Roy noted the tiny handwriting, at the number of purchases that listed upward, abruptly ending where the man’s pen laid. “And surprisingly expensive. I thought the food was the only thing you needed.”

Roy put on a smile. Mus’ab, however, just continued to look on, unamused with the current situation. And to be fair, Roy understood the feeling perfectly. “Well, it’s certainly a surprise, isn’t it?”

A grin grew on the treasurer’s face as he wiped a speck of sweat from his nose. “Definitely. Of course, financials are always a pain. Sometimes you just want to stick a fifty grand and get it over with. Hell, funding a city like Daliha is enough to make me want to retire.”

Knowing how they talked about this for over three hours — in the heat no less — the sentiment was mutual. Roy still had to be careful, however. Mus’ab hadn’t said a hostile word yet, and whether he himself had the patience to be here was up in the air. But so far, Mus’ab continued to stare at the three men. In thinly-veiled disdain. Not enough to cause a murder.

“But,” the treasurer continued, “I do agree that the potential for autonomy is there. Food always did bring people to tourist areas. Sometimes they were the main factor for a village’s sheer existence on the map.” Bombarda frowned. “And we all know the Ishvalans need that pick-me-up.”

Roy nodded. He was grateful the Ishvalan next to him had eased his expression, although the sight itself didn’t reassure him. Roy pressed a finger to the table. “So are we in agreement?”

Bombarda wrote into his papers. “Only eight months to recreate all four-hundred-thirty-six recipes.” 

Roy didn’t flinch, but the man beside him did — now at full height.

“We cannot recreate these recipes within eight months.” Mus’ab put his hands onto the table, pressing them into the wood. He stared at the treasurer, who looked amused in spite of his advisors’ taut faces and protests. “Cooking is Ishvala’s blessing, one of the many ways the community shows its gratitude toward living. You can’t hurry it lest you want to ruin and mock the recipes themselves.”

“I’m sorry, Grand Cleric Mus’ab.” The apology didn’t reach Bombarda’s eyes, and Roy steeled himself for the oncoming lecture. Not only for the inevitable argument afterward, but as a way to stop himself from doing something he would regret. “But we are focusing on different projects all at once. Agencies are trying to rebuild miles of lost housing, replicating duel-cropping and seasonal schedules. We have agencies trying to connect electricity to the streets, civil workers attempting to bring back families into ready accommodations, and who knows what else. The only reason we're considering this is because of the benefits toward the Ishvalan community and economy. The more stable things are, the quicker we’re allowed to let you all go home.”

Roy was careful to grab the man’s arm, but Mus’ab remained rooted, watching the others. The lines in his nose deepened even more. “And food is important to who we are as a people. It’s what makes the Holy Land our home.”

Before Bombarda could respond, Roy intervened: “Economy is imperative, treasurer. If you hasten the progress on the recipes, it wouldn’t be good for business now, would it?” 

His addition was enough. Not too quick and not too slow, but enough to get the point across. The words had to be perfect, of course. Mister Bombarda liked business. So Roy would give him business. “Low-quality foods would mean weakening a part of the economy’s stable foundation. No stable foundation, then the entire set-up falls.” His gaze hardened, watching Bombarda’s frown twitch under scrutiny. “We all concur that rebuilding Ishval again would be a waste of money.”

Bombarda stared at him, unblinking. His advisors were whispering into his ears, lips fast and hushed. What they were discussing, Roy could only theorize, was a second chance — for Bombarda’s frown grew deeper.

After a nerve-wracking moment, he sighed. “Fine. If you can finish half of the assigned recipes by the end of the deadline, we’ll consider an extension.”

Mus’ab and Bombarda continued to stare at one another, unyielding.

“Is that good, Grand Cleric?” Bombarda asked finally.

To Roy’s surprise, Mus’ab sat down. His hands folded neatly on the table out of kindness, knuckles tense, almost ready to crack. The table’s shifting glances and fidgeting hands made Bombarda laugh anxiously when his requested drink lowered down onto the table with a dull _tink_. “Well then, was a good chat. I just need the room’s signatures and we’ll be on our way.”

The sun receded into the mountains as all of them disembarked from the tent. Roy was at least glad to be able to walk, but his chest still bore heaviness, worry; he spotted the Grand Cleric a few minutes afterward. He was exiting the station — fists clenched, shoulders stiff as a board.

The Ishvalan had a right to be angry, but it was inevitable that they had to work with the limitations. Still, the situation wasn’t impossible. They just had to work harder, especially with the limit given.

Roy sighed and made his way to the nearby outpost, spotting Hawkeye, stationed with the jeep. 

He rested his head on the vehicle cushion when they drove out of the outpost. His eyes lulled at the horizon, where the bright light ebbed and seeped behind the dunes, the sky a dimming blue.

Upon sunrise, Operation Loghmeh would have begun.


	3. Preservation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course, he had worked in a kitchen before — he wasn't naive to the tinkering of measurements, or the smell of fire. Nonetheless, the first day teaches him the inner workings of the kitchen itself, and something else underlying the surface.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank [NewLense](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewLense/pseuds/NewLense/) and [priscilladm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/priscilladm/pseuds/priscilladm) for beta-reading the second-half of this chapter, because holy cannoli this is seven thousand words.
> 
> Anyway, because of the quantity of this chapter, I hope it compensates for the long wait! And since college is back up again, I'll warn you that it might take a little bit longer for me to write the fourth chapter, since it's still in the rough draft stage out of anything. Regardless, thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you want to yell at me, feel free to at [my Tumblr!](https://borkthemork.tumblr.com/)

A week had passed since the discussion, and during that time, his medical pardon had come into effect. And every day afterward felt like a deadline.

There were people to contact, consider, and meet. Usually, this was a normal day for him, but the additional work lead him to work non-stop ever since he’d gotten back to his desk. He was relieved that the tasks he’d worked on were only half of what was needed, with Mus’ab promising to do the rest — always with a new report to keep the process transparent.

And those reports flooded in day-by-day like clockwork:

On the first day, the mudbrick oven’s foundation was built.

On the second day, the temporary pantry was developed. Ingredients were delivered, well and preserved in jars, bags, and sheets of ice.

On the third day, the oven was officially cleaned up, with tandoors arriving to boot.

The days four, five, and onward left him waiting for Musʽab's word. He didn’t care if it was through letter or telegram; all he wanted was to assemble and get the plan into action.

In the meantime, Roy kept himself busy.

Papers were filed, people were trusted, and an ounce of sleep left with Roy grew less and less as he gathered the necessary materials, hoping all of it could be transported in the upcoming days.

Eventually, breaks had to be taken. Even if work was better than doing nothing, he didn’t want to worry the captain with another medical visit. And he preferred balance to a daily mental breakdown, of course. So in the upcoming days, he sorted what he could, filed the needed reports, and forced himself to take naps if a migraine came to fruition.

In retrospect, Hawkeye had been a major help in that department. She filtered through the policies, represented him in meetings, filled in when he was on the precipice of another heatstroke. And every time he strode into his office after a resource deployment, Roy observed the small things: her sluggish shoulders, the stiff transcript exchanges, the continuous hustle in her eyes.

Ultimately, Hawkeye had done more work than him in the long run, and he felt ashamed when he focused too much on it. 

She had always worked herself to the bone; it was unfair to make her do this as if she were a pack mule.

But whenever she glanced at him afterward, the thoughts always receded.

Because those eyes told him that she did these for a reason. And Roy Mustang knew that she wasn’t going to let up.

It was at these times — where his mind grew slogged, where the blood pressure peaked — when he finally procured nightmares.

Leaving him to jolt in the middle of nowhere, in the cold, in the relentless question of “where?”, “when?”, and “why?”.

For he was alone.

And being alone was the worse place to be.

His muscles locked tight. They were covered in a thin sheen of sweat, legs unable to kick at the clinging covers, fruitless against the pricks and pins to his skin. And the cold overcame him like hot ice pressed against flesh.

He had no idea where he was, where Hawkeye went, or if his squadron laid dead somewhere in the sands.

The world was still. 

Too damn still.

And he needed to move.

_He needed to move now._

His hands scrambled over to his left. He grappled the edge of something harsh, then smooth, then small as it _plocked_ off a surface. There were Ishvalan shadows lurking in the corners. The quick press of a knife against his neck, and it took everything within him to keep his breath steady amid the pounding of his own heart. 

Between the ragged exhales and the shaky grip on his arms, Roy could only whisper — grip the breath in his throat — until his focus waned to nothing, to nothing but the beating sound of his chest.

His heart stilled to something familiar, complacent, and he took in another breath to compensate.

One more.

And then another.

Eventually, his muscles relaxed into the sheets. The aches lingered now that the mattress pressed into his joints, as the sounds in his mind hushed to nothing.

The wind howled and groaned outside. For all Roy knew, people were still working, rebuilding what was once lost outside of his quarters. And he laid here, trying to squint through the darkness, grateful for his bedside lighter as he sparked a quick flame in the lantern chamber.

His office was small, decorated with fake walls and more boxed-in than the tents or offices nearby. It wasn’t too crowded. It remained private, spatial, to-himself. No one could sneak in without first waking him, and there was pleasure in his mattress — flat and pressed up in a corner — being a few feet away from his desk, piled and decorated with questionable amounts of paperwork. 

He didn’t want to move, however. His body still shook from the cold, and he surveyed his room as the minutes ticked back. 

What day was it?

His answer hung tacked onto the wall, in the shape of a calendar.

Turned to the month of July, every square was scribbled into with different colors for the latest events. Some notes were dashed, others added on with post-it notes; whatever Roy needed, he tried to at least put some order into his chaos, lest he wanted Hawkeye to berate him later.

However, one square wasn’t filled. It had only one task, the words inside scribbled in obnoxious bold red.

**Meet up with Mus’ab - Begin Prep**

Roy squinted more at the date.

_July thirteenth._

That was today.

He rubbed his neck, a cuss lost to the chilly night as he groped for a towel. Draping it around his neck, Roy sat at the edge of his bed and watched the night with bloodshot eyes. He allowed the small note to work his brain, to work his nerves until the anxieties pooled down to his gut.

At the rumble of his stomach, Roy finally pulled himself up, gathering the rest of his clothes for a quick shower.

Coldwater wouldn’t hurt.

* * *

The sun beat red when it rose above the skyline. It left Roy to conserve the water from his canteen, wiping the sweat from his brow as his collar started to dampen from the incessant heat. 

Ishval hadn’t had this bad of a wave for months, so Roy kept his mouth shut as he held onto a sack of rice, keeping his balance now that the road grew bumpy. Ishvalans had endured this type of heat for years, for centuries; complaining about it wouldn’t do anything.

The vehicle drove and rumbled on. His legs vibrated, creasing the map laid out in front of him, the captain peaking over his shoulder to see where they were. She also had sweat on her forehead, trying her best to hold a stoic face in spite of the redness on her cheeks.

“The Gunja Projects situated the workshop in—” She pointed to a corner of the paper. “—there.”

Roy scrunched his nose and took a swig from the canteen. “It took two weeks to make all this. It better be worth it.”

“If it means preserving Ishvalan cuisine then…”

Riza didn’t have to finish that sentence for him to know. He would be a damned idiot to stop altogether now that everything was in motion, especially with a treasurer and the Ishvalan community breathing down his neck.

The captain glanced up from the map. “We’re here, sir.”

He looked up as well.

Mus’ab was in front of a small gate as the truck slowed down. He looked expectant, and Roy would even say pleased when the man rapped the vehicle’s hub cap, signaling Hawkeye to start lifting one of the flour bags as the ground stilled. Roy dropped down from the truck soon afterward, assisting the captain as they hauled sacks past the gate.

On the last pack, Roy took a moment to stare at the exterior as they went inside. The building looked similar to the surrounding houses; it was bleached to pure white, smoothed and hardened to perfection, and any form of window, soffit, or connecting partition was carefully designed to make sure it could withstand the years to come. All geometric, simplistic. 

Inside, the rooms were furnished sparsely, with only cushions, picture frames, and a few tables to occupy the space.

What was different with this building now, however, was the smell. Amid the simmering air, Roy took in the whiff of smoke. Not the one that stickied his lips with fat or smelt of a pure, charred human corpse, but of barbeque smoke, of already-prepared cedar.

He and Hawkeye were in the living room when Mus’ab instructed them to place the sack down, a task taken over by two Ishvalan men who then lugged the rest to what Roy presumed was the pantry.

Everything seemed to be finished.

Going back to full height, Roy flashed the Ishvalan man a quick smile. “I see you already took a head start.”

Mus’ab grimaced. Roy didn't know if the fault came from him and what he said, but the man immediately turned and trailed out the backdoor. Roy reluctantly did the same. 

The courtyard was much bigger than he expected. And a lot sparser too. There was a dry fountain dead center of the crisp-tiled ground, verdant plants potted into the soil, and specks of vines coiled around the columns, as the two strode under the colonnades.

“It could take hours with each dish," Mus'ab explained finally. "So a few have started ahead of us with the hot coals.”

“Hot coals.” He frowned a little. Roy took a glance over at the building’s rooftops. He spotted one of the robust chimneys. It coughed a few grey puffs, the smoke now tendrils into the blue sky. “For a second, I believed the smell was cedar.”

Mus’ab narrowed his eyes. In thought or scrutiny, Roy had no clue. “Ishvalan cooking is preferred with coals. Wood is sparsely used unless we need a bonfire, and Ishvala forbids you use animal dung.”

That made sense. Cooking wasn’t Roy’s territory, but he might as well be useful regardless. If that meant noting the small details such as kindling and how to apply himself, then so be it.

After they turned a corner, Roy was happy to hear familiar footsteps behind him — faithfully syncing up with his, presence not too far behind. Looking over his shoulder, the Captain’s gaze connected with his. “Hawkeye, stay for the first test run.” At her quirked eyebrow, he smiled. “I’ll need a cooking advisor.”

He needed someone to make sure the kitchen didn’t burst into flames, and Hawkeye had enough experience to tell him if his water was inedible. After all, she was the best cook Roy knew ever since they were kids.

It wasn’t long before her eyes flashed with acknowledgment. She nodded, then wrote something down into her clipboard. “Yes, sir.” 

She hid it well, but the amusement in her response wasn’t lost on him. Her voice was vibrant, more alive than the previous workdays, and Roy couldn’t help but quirk a smile as Scar stopped in front of a door, leading them inside.

Roy noted the drop in temperature when they entered. Compared to the other rooms, the dining quarters were recognizably colder. The walls were void of any decor, of any form of living, and when Roy passed into one of the adjoined rooms he confronted the same thing, except for a small rack adorned with what looked to be aprons, headbands, and other accouterments.

“We’ll decorate this area later. But for now, it will be left empty. If both of you are ready, here.” Mus’ab pulled out his hand, pieces of fabric laid out on his palms. “They’re cauls. The rest of the garments should be in Mustang’s room.” 

Once they tied on the apparel, Mus’ab started toward the end of the room, where a grand door laid out before them. “Contamination and failure will be our main worries today. This is the first time we’ll be using one of the ovens, and I want to make sure everything is functional for the months ahead. So I’ve brought assistance to help us.”

Hawkeye looked at him. Her hair fit snugly into the clothing, reminding him of better times; of better days where she covered her head for cooking rather than for shade on some makeshift watchtower. “You didn’t tell us this before, Scar.”

“I must’ve been too vague on the matter, for I was alluding to them when we talked of the coals,” he explained. “I’d rather have experts in the art of cooking than two Amestrians and a man of Ishvalan faith. I don’t suppose you two know how to cook.”

The captain nodded. Roy didn’t. 

Mus’ab frowned at him. “I thought so. Come in. I’ve debriefed the cooks on your backgrounds and the recipe we’ll be tackling. They’re prepared for the hard task ahead.”

He pushed the door open, the hinges silent as a gust of hot air caressed their faces. 

The kitchen was a lot more excruciating as he continued to step through, and the source was the back wall, where a massive earthen oven struck out, glowing red like the unseen coals beneath its bulbous weight. Beside it was a fine row of massive clay pots, and in front of the furnace, two figures were manning it.

One of them was hunched over near the slit of the oven. Hair covered in a black hijab, her eyes were laden with heavy bags, gaze unwavering as she shoveled rough sets of coal with leathered hands. The woman next to her didn’t wear a headdress. She currently looked over a paper on the stone counter, mumbling words under her breath. A magenta scar crossed vertically from her lower to upper lip — which Roy tried his best not to look at.

At the sight of Mus'ab, both stopped what they were doing and hurried over. Their heads lowered down into a quick bow.

“These are our assistants today.” He directed a hand to the elder. “This is Elder Jemina from the Eastern slums.” Then toward the young woman. “And this is Sister Sadira from the Northern slums. They’ll be helping us with the recipes. Whatever we need done, they’ll follow.”

Roy put on his best smile and pressed his hands together in a bow — something he learned from the Ishvalan diplomats before he came into the desert. “Salaam. My name is Roy Mustang, the Ishvalan reconstruction ambassador.”

He motioned over to Hawkeye, who bowed discreetly in return. “And this is Riza Hawkeye, captain, and personal adjutant.”

Elder Jemina’s lips quirked into a broad smile. “Salaam, Mister Roy, and Miss Riza.” For an old lady, there was a fiery spirit in her newly found smirk, as if she had been waiting for this very moment her whole life. “Brother Mus’ab had talked to us about the task at hand, and we’re grateful to be part of such an amazing endeavor.”

Sadira nodded along, voice soft as a canary. “The ingredients we’ll need are sorted in the pantry.”

Roy blinked at her. Mus’ab had informed him of what they were doing, but the particulars had been unclear. “What recipe will be used?” he asked.

Sadira nodded once again and motioned a hand toward the counter. “Right here, Mister Roy.”

He looked over, Hawkeye doing the same thing. The Ishvalan women were right. The recipe was laid out in front of them in crisp, white paper, the word _Basbousa_ typed out in bold. It was one of the more complete documents Falman was able to get and recreate from the Ishvalan slums, and Roy was relieved that their first attempt wouldn’t need to have much digging or research to recreate it.

Not yet, anyway.

“Hawkeye.”

“Yes, sir?”

The paper was coarse on his fingers. He tapped his digits onto the bullet points, onto the list written out before them. “Go into the pantry with them. We’ll have to start immediately if the oven’s preheated.”

“Yes, sir.”

She didn’t take her time leaving, nor did she pass a second-glance at the recipe to know what was at hand. And that left him with the others, alone in the kitchen with only the crackle of coals and the heat to occupy them.

“We’ll go with your direction, Scar.”

The man looked at him and frowned, more confused than irritated in this case. “What?”

“This is your culture, after all,” Roy spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. And of course, it should’ve been. Roy wasn’t going to make a complete ass out of himself over a culture that wasn’t his. “You have the vision, the references, the experiences. I only know through research at this point. You lead, and I’ll follow.”

This speech usually got any type of man to nod and stick with his plans, but instead of gratitude, Mus’ab began to scowl at him. “I’m not a baker nor a cook, Mustang. I am a warrior and a priest. If there was anything I’m inept at, it would be understanding the intricacies of an important art such as this.”

Well, he didn’t account for that. Roy nodded nonetheless, trying not to stare at the curious Ishvalan women, who were washing their hands under the tap water. “And I’m not a cook either, but let’s agree that we’re going to see to this till the very end.”

And for a moment, Roy almost thought he saw a smile form on the other man’s lips. “Backing down was never an option.”

* * *

Roy Mustang, in retrospect, should’ve been tasked with better-suited things than preparing food. 

He was just an alchemist, for God’s sake. He knew how to concentrate oxygen, to form and work the basic elements under his fingertips, but believing that it translated well to the culinary arts was asking for failure. Regardless of his protests, the Ishvalans quickly put him to work.

Instead of using the laws of equivalent exchange to thicken the yeast or raise the bread, he had to instill himself with patience. Patience with hauling food bags; patience with the precise pouring of sugar; patience with what other instructions the Ishvalan women gave him to do while they did most of the brute work.

And he was thankful for it, too.

Elder Jemina and Sadira hustled throughout the kitchen as if they owned it. They looked through the recipe with swift eyes, mumbled notes here and there as they prepared bowls and tins for the batches, and — with the ingredients piled onto the counter — they were quick to work the batter to something that wafted sweetly through the air even before they placed it into the oven.

“We have it easy,” Elder Jemina joked. Her laughter was light, airy, and reverberated through the kitchen — odd coming from a woman who looked miserable on the first impression — as she instructed Hawkeye to grab a huge bowl. “Basbousa is a very well-known dessert. No need for long prep time. It’s silly to think so!”

Sadira brushed a dish in butter. Mus’ab grabbed more bowls at Elder Jemina’s request. And as time continued, Roy found himself instructed to scoop and carefully dump contents into containers. Three eggs and sugar beaten to light yellow. Yogurt, vanilla extract, smen. When he looked to Riza and the others, he couldn’t help but look on in awe at how each of them worked quickly and efficiently — beating the batter with diligent and skilled hands, pouring their samples into the tins.

All of them functioned as a working machine.

Mesmerized, it took a second to realize that Sadira had mumbled something in his direction. He looked over, curious. “I’m sorry. Can you speak up?”

“Oh. I’m just thinking, Mister Roy,” she reassured him. Her frown was apparent as she gazed idly at the mixture in his hand. It was the second one he’d made in the last hour. He didn’t know if she judged the way he stirred or the looseness of his stature — probably both.

“Am I doing this incorrectly?”

She shook her head quickly, voice still difficult to hear through her murmurs. “Not at all. I just fear that the bread shall not deliver the right flavors with this mixture. It doesn’t feel...right.” Her eyes brightened up, letting out a small ‘Aha!’. “We add some honey syrup.”

“Honey syrup?”

“Yes. The recipe does not say to use it, but it’s used a lot with the delicacies we have.” She shrugged, keeping her bowl tucked under her arm. “Since this is our second batch, it wouldn’t hurt to experiment.”

Roy wanted to doubt her. That was the first thought that came to mind when deviating from the main steps, but he stopped himself before the thought could leave his mouth. This was Sadira’s culture, not his. It was best to allow her to take the lead.

Sadira glanced over to him. Her hands had been scouring through the empty available bowls, and grabbed one that was the size of a serving plate. “Mister Roy.”

He looked at her expectantly.

“Get the syrup for me, please. It should be in the pantry.”

Roy knew how to follow orders, but regardless of that fact, he stood there for a few seconds with what he assumed was the most stupid look on his face. He didn’t know where the pantry was located. And even if he did, what was the syrup supposed to look like? On instinct, he glimpsed toward the rest of the kitchen unit, finding Hawkeye’s eyes already on him from where she worked.

Roy said goodbye to Sadira and made his way out of the building, knowing full well that the captain was already following him out into the courtyard.

Under the colonnade halls, Roy couldn’t help himself but wander for a moment. Through crisp turns and corners, despite the captain’s guidance (“Focus on me, sir.”), it struck Roy that the complex seemed different than the Amestrian architecture he was used to. There was latticework on the windows, instead of clay and concrete the archways were made of mud and loam, the niches above them hiding mosaics that befit the colors of oceans. He never did have the time to inspect the true details to Ishvalan design; Roy preferred the task in the hands of a professional rather than a military man out of all people, but there was something breathtaking in seeing the way the columns rose around them, at how the masonry transitioned into the friezes overhead.

It made him wonder what this entire building would look like when it was full of life, full of fresh-flowing water and flora.

And of people.

“It should be here, sir.” At the final turn, Hawkeye opened a door. 

The sting of herbs hit him immediately. Sacks of spice — of cumin, cloves, coriander, and many other hues — piled into brimming rows around them. Vegetables dangled down from the walls on tightened string, different crates and boxes sat in their own separate areas and labels, and the more he stared the more unfamiliar and colorful the pantry became.

“All right,” he said finally, crouching down to one of the boxes. “Look around. We need to find the syrup.”

It didn’t take long for them to find what they were looking for: it was stored up in one of the crates, part of a huge collection of jars. The only reason they were able to find the right one was out of sheer luck, and the fact honey was supposed to look amber rather than white, brown, or whatever else was being stored in the compartment. Roy grunted as he attempted to open it.

"Sir, I'll—"

"Don't worry. I'm capable of opening a single jar."

After a strained minute, Roy cussed and pulled away. His hands were red from the strain, starting to irritate the skin. He tried again, only to fail. 

Hesitantly, he looked over to his adjutant. “Hawkeye.”

She sighed and took the jar away from him. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

The sun peaked as they started finishing the last of the batches.

Their aprons were clouded in white and brown, sometimes stuck with gunk that had flown off the bowl by accident. They washed the almonds and slid the tins into the hearth one-by-on, but the room was otherwise silent as each dessert was accounted for. But Roy didn’t like comparing the cooking to a manufacturing factory. The kitchen was quiet as everyone was working, but in the midst of trays and oven heat, hushed whispers occupied the in-betweens.

He wasn’t perturbed by the observation, but as he kneaded, poured, and calculated the batter, he could only do so much work before Roy started honing on background noise.

He spotted Hawkeye a few feet to his left. She spoke quietly to Elder Jemina as they worked their share, the older woman beaming at her as they pulled their batch out of the oven. A few times — at specific intervals he could only estimate as eleven-hundred to twelve-hundred hours — a few Ishvalan men walked in and out of the kitchen. They looked more like architects, with their sunkissed builds and the tools on their clothes; they would report to Mus’ab of electricity, the courtyard, and the dining room — now reportedly filled with furniture — until there was nothing left to report. Afterward, they always exited through the backdoors. Always.

Most imperative to him, out of everything, Roy noted the whispers from Sadira and Mus’ab. They were a lot closer to him than the rest, just a few feet to the right, and Roy knew interesting discussion when he witnessed one: Sadira had grown more talkative compared to a few hours before. His Ishvalan was rusty but he picked up on parts of their conversation: talk of books, harsh winters, some Amestrian phrases, and Mus’ab harbored neither a furrowed brow nor frown when she rambled. 

In fact, his expression looked looser and friendlier than Roy had ever seen from him.

As if the man actually enjoyed himself.

Roy wasn’t usually an effective multi-tasker but there were moments that needed more focus than others, and sometimes that meant putting his understanding of Ishvalan vernacular to the test. 

So he remained silent, focused on cutting the fresh batch in his hand as he listened.

The words were soft to him. Some letters here, some terms there which he could recognize: Mus’ab’s name, basbousa, the oven, the slum, a thank you. “This is wonderful,” Sadira said. She was focused on the almonds, pressing each one into the center of the cut diamonds as if each piece were a jewel to an expensive frame. She then said, “I haven’t cooked basbousa in a proper oven for so long”. She didn’t blame the slums, for the slums had ovens. But her thank-yous were enough to make Roy stifle his cutting for a second, as a comforting quiet blanketed over their forms.

She then spoke again. Her words kept close, hard to hear with the pat of hands and the silent _shk_ of knives, but Roy tried to capture parts and pieces, the phrases he knew.

She was showing some form of gratitude, a promise. A promise for what?

To Roy’s surprise, Mus’ab broke the silence. 

Ishvalan too: “You don’t need to give me anything, Sister.”

Roy caught a glimpse of the Ishvalan’s face — he wore a tiny smile, not too visible, but enough. Enough to show appeasement. Some type of happiness. He was “happy to have her”, there was talk of preservation, the idea of “true cooks”.

The desire to stay alive.

But flattery wasn’t what she wanted, she said. Roy bit his lip when the next words came through, clearer than before.

“To be here again. I haven’t been here since I was a little girl, ever since…”

The woman went silent, the atmosphere thickening to something stifling. Her hands hovered over the basbousa, eyes gleaming like glass.

“I’m truly grateful,” she said to Mus’ab, “for what you’ve done.”

Roy flinched when Elder Jemina spoke abruptly into his ear. First in Ishvalan, then in Amestrian. “Young man, pay attention to the batter. Don’t mess up the slices.”

His eyes shot back to the basbousa. “Sorry.”

He hoped that the others didn’t notice.

* * *

Elder Jemina had given herself the role of oven-checker when everything was all said and done. After confirming the dining room was furnished, she ordered all of them to start decorating the table with plates, happy to laugh when Roy asked if she needed help in the kitchen.

“I’m a fine cook, aren’t I?” she said, placing a plate into his chest. “Elders have the sharpest eye with treats, Mister Roy. Do not worry about me.”

Roy did as ordered without further protest, gathering stacks of ceramics into his hands until the surface was covered in empty plates, a bowl of yogurt with eggah platters in the very center. All of them sat down in their respective cushions — trying their best to peak into the kitchen numerous times, inevitably ushered out by Jemina with a spoon.

When the Elder did come back fully, the atmosphere grew talkative, unnervingly so. Elder Jemina would joke with Sadira, start a few questions and talks around the table, and if one of the workers walked in, they were quick to introduce each of the table’s diners to said workers. Roy wasn’t the kind to disapprove of such a vibrant air, but the fact that it was there in the first place baffled him.

The Ishvalan women smiled at him and Hawkeye as if they had been close and courteous with one another for centuries. They were two past war criminals seated close, yet the women never seemed to mind. Though Scar would act gruff and curt with Roy, the women never did; nor did some of the Ishvalan workers, who gave him handshakes before making their way out of the area once again.

The only reason that made sense was chosen ignorance. 

Maybe the Ishvalans were trying to ignore the elephant in the room. They must’ve seen the finer details: the way he and Hawkeye talked and held themselves, the way he referred to himself as an ambassador instead of his military rank. Scar had told them everything, and he wasn’t the kind to strip away the truth just for niceties. They had to know.

Nevertheless, the banter continued, their jovial nature never ceasing to perplex him. And when he glanced to his left, he noted his captain, who had been eyeing the lot of them too — in the same way as him.

“When the basbousa finishes, I shall go first,” Elder Jemina said with a broad smile on her features, patting Mus’ab’s shoulder in affection. “I may be old, but I’ll stuff myself full. It’s been too long since I had something like basbousa!”

“Save some for the rest, Elder Jemina.” To Roy’s surprise, Mus’ab had chuckled along to her joke. The next thing he knew, the man was going to pop out a second head. “Ishvala would intervene with such an act if you plan to carry it out.”

Sadira scoffed. “She’ll eat basbousa in the name of Ishvala for her hard work. Or do you want the men to take credit for all that we’d done? Might as well cut your greedy heads off.”

The women burst into giggles, and Roy glanced over at Hawkeye, who silently watched in the corner just like him — trying her best poker face for the occasion. They had no clue what to say. They might as well have been ghosts. 

Mus’ab began to stand up as the two women talked.

“Don’t you dare rise up before your elders, Brother!” Elder Jemina tutted, and quickly stood up so that the man could walk away with ease. The smiles were still on their faces. Coming back, Mus’ab plopped a low table between all of them, surface sleek and covered with inlaid design.

“The tea is ready. Don’t cut me yet.” The man sounded loose, relaxed. It struck Roy that Mus’ab — once a serial killer, once full of hatred and serious vows to murder others in his god’s name — just made a joke. “If my blood spills on the basbousa, it’ll be your fault.”

“Blaming us for your disrespect.” Sadira shook her head, voice louder than just a simple whisper. “You should know better, Brother. Who raised you?”

“A proud Baba and Mama, now let me focus.”

He poured tea into the respective cups, and the Ishvalan laughter resumed. When the sets were filled, Roy and Riza reluctantly took theirs. 

The liquid rested in his hands. It was warm to the touch, kissing his fingertips to the point of burning while his eyes glazed over, looking over to his dining companions patiently.

The captain was blowing at the wisps with a fixed stare, trying her best to keep to herself. The Ishvalans did abide by this, however. They were just nodding their heads to their conversations and jibs, always in Ishvalan words he didn’t dare translate, until, eventually, they had closed their eyes, and mumbled prayers under their breaths.

Roy wasn’t a religious man, but he relented and kept his head down, wondering if Hawkeye too did it out of obligation. He didn’t have the courage to speak the Ishvalan prayers he had read from books, but he labeled himself a coward. He must’ve been afraid of failing them in some way.

He couldn’t tell when all of them drank at the same time.

The cushions supported his legs more when he took in for a drink, the hot liquid warming his throat. The conversation had continued in spite of their presence as if nothing was wrong, and he was surprised to find that Mus’ab’s countenance didn’t perceive the situation as such. The nature of the vibrant women was a question to him, but Scar wasn’t speaking much anymore, only nodding and listening whenever necessary. 

He seemed… almost careful, and the realization of why came through eventually.

“May Ishvala protect us,” Elder Jemina said, sniffing the air. “We have to make so many recipes after this. I’ll have to resist the temptations every day. Where do we even start?”

Sadira laughed, leaning more in her seat. “Brother Mus’ab, the plan is to make four-hundred-thirty-six, yes?”

The man didn’t flinch. “That is correct.” He placed down his emptied cup onto the table. “But the circumstances have changed it to two-hundred-eighteen. Regardless, we will have many recipes to test. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what needs to be written down and preserved, so we need to be efficient and swift until the administration decides to give us more time. And yet… we will have to be smart too.”

Because there were recipes that are pocked full of holes. Ones so ancient and dated in their civilization that common knowledge was left oral instead of written down — the most ancient scribblings of Ishvalan text now hard to decipher, anyone who could’ve spoken and preserved it presumably dead for countless reasons.

The daunting task plagued his, Hawkeye’s, and Mus’ab’s faces, but the expressions of the women still shone brightly in spite of that.

“Well, we shall be of good use to you then.” Jemina chuckled, nodding curtly. “We won’t stop until every Ishvalan recipe has been preserved under our writing, and if you ever need more people under your beck and call, I won’t hesitate to yell my husband’s ear off.” She laughed. “He’s a good cook if he doesn’t slack off with the housework, and when he wants something done he’ll tell the entire neighborhood if he has to.”

To Roy’s surprise, he found his voice butting in: “That would be great, actually.”

The entire table looked at him. It was the first time he’d ever spoken up since they started. “We are grateful to have people capable of following through with precision and accuracy. If there are others who have the same love toward the craft, then it should allow us to reach our project deadline earlier than expected.” It was better to have a team than nothing; Roy knew this more than anyone.

And the women seemed to understand that notion well.

“Mister Roy, you’re being rather formal again,” Sister Sadira chuckled. “We are grateful too, however. It is an honor to work in Ishvala’s name, to help in any way we can so that all of us can rebuild our home from the ground up.”

Jemina sniggered. “Better than working ourselves to death under the sun.” She then put herself into another respectful bow. “We will work, yes, but running ourselves into the ground isn’t what we plan to do unless Ishvala marked this as our rightful graves.”

Both of them then burst into light laughter, and Roy could only stare at them, not knowing what to say now that the awkward atmosphere had rammed itself into existence. Those two probably didn’t see it, but Roy could. Hawkeye could. Mus’ab could too, if his distracted gaze were anything to go by.

Roy laughed regardless, putting his best smile on.

“We’ll keep you working then, we wouldn’t want you two to die in such a way,” he added, trying not to pay attention to Scar’s glare from the sideline.

The man could lecture him later.

“True, true.” Sadira let out a relieved sigh, trying her best to recover from her laughter. “Look at us, we let the Amestrians come into our homes after they demolished them! Silly, do you agree? My father, if he saw this, he’d probably scream into my ear and tell me to come back to the slums.”

Roy frowned. “Now, that’s—”

Elder Jemina butted in before he could speak any further. “We can’t have you leave the sacred land, Sister.” She peered at Roy, beaming like the desert sun. “Mr. Roy, you should sample the slum buildings for the project. That’ll keep her staying!”

Roy was left in the middle of two hysterical Ishvalans, trying his best to chuckle along as he watched Mus’ab and Hawkeye in the corner of his eye. They looked farther away from the table, sipping their tea nonchalantly. 

Neither of them wanted to help him.

“I’ll do so.” He continued to laugh. He gave a weary glance toward his captain. Hawkeye continued to drink her tea, not paying him any attention. _Traitor_. “The reconstruction project aims to restore and rebuild. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“You are a good man, Mister Roy.” Sadira beamed at him, and in those eyes — past the scar on her lips, of the bags on her face — he spotted a bright woman. One who went through so much, yet somehow still persevered and didn’t look at him as if he was a disgusting human being. It left him staring. It left him baffled. “Let’s check the oven again, Elder Jemina.”

“Of course, dear.” Elder Jemina rose to her feet, Sadira quickly following behind her as they entered the kitchen. 

The Ishvalan women left Roy to stare blankly at the table, trying not to curse at the sleek designs. Hawkeye’s little shoulder pat didn’t help much either.

After a few minutes, Roy and the others were ushered into the kitchen. With careful hands, they pulled the rich brown cake tins from the insides of the mudbrick, the aroma enough to make his mouth water. Elder Jemina mumbled small ‘careful’s as she instructed Hawkeye to spray water onto the hot coals, and when she did, the steam rose out of small niches, the smooth surface of the oven now cooled to simmering darkness.

With sheets of paper ready, Roy cleaned the counter to make way for the newly-unveiled pastry tins. Each one still retained their sweet vanilla smell, which wafted through the mud-brick house unhindered, and Roy knew that if he stared too long he’d do nothing but complain about hunger. The others looked to have similar sentiment — even Hawkeye, from how her focus slipped with each tin she carried. 

With a knife, Roy cut clean through the diamonds incised into the bread and repeated the process for each one. Pieces were then settled onto plates, the counter filling its surface with different ceramic pieces — sectioned off for the sake of what Sadira called “the honeyed” and “not-honeyed” ones. 

Tea had been placed to the side, and Elder Jemina looked over to Hawkeye, whispering something into her ear before the old woman brought herself to a room-level voice. The captain looked pale, almost shocked. “Miss Riza shall eat first.”

Roy furrowed his eyebrows at the older woman, who smiled pleasantly in return. “As the elder, I gave her my blessing. Basbousa is not only a common food for us but a gift we give to neighbors, to brethren, to the ones we love.”

Hawkeye kept herself rooted to where she was, speechless. And now it made sense why. This was too intimate of a gesture for the Ishvalans to do. “I’m flattered, Elder Jemina… but are you sure?”

Roy glanced at Mus’ab. He had no clue if the Ishvalan condoned the idea or if he restrained himself out of filial piety. All he harbored was an indiscernible face, watching Elder Jemina pat Riza’s shoulder in encouragement.

“I insist. You’re a lovely woman who has garnered my blessing. I would love for you to take the first bite.”

Hawkeye watched her, standing almost questionably as the silence continued. Roy knew that the etiquette book hadn’t covered this. Gaining a blessing from an elder is the norm for the Ishvalans, but the pages never brought up specifics about elders giving blessings toward Amestrians, toward people who harmed them years before. 

And yet, here they were.

Elder Jemina coaxed her softly, brushing a hand on the woman’s shoulder. Roy noted the small flinch. Suppressed well. Not suppressed enough to him.

“Don’t be so modest, Miss Riza.” There was a smile from the elder, and a small bow of her head. Hawkeye reluctantly did the same. “We all made this with love. No need to hold back, especially since Ishvalan desserts are sinful in nature, for they create greed among men. May Ishvala assist us with all these helpings.”

Sadira giggled beside Roy, and the atmosphere felt breathable again.

Riza continued to stare, however. For a moment, Roy could see her eyes flicker with numerous emotions she’d held before. Of worry, of carefulness, and most importantly, guilt.

“Go on!” The Elder ushered her to the basbousa. “It won’t eat itself, dear. Use your fingers.”

Riza quietly strode up to the plate. Each step clicked on the tile, sounding off, echoing, like the muffled reload of a barrel, and — with a steady-hidden breath — she pressed her fingers into the diamond-shaped cut, pulling it up to eye-level. 

The cake stuck well and gleamed under the light. 

Putting it to her lips, she tore a part of it off with her teeth and started to chew.

Her eyes grew wide. Roy watched her as she looked down at the plate in her hands, taking it all in with a languid swallow.

“This…” Her words fell out in awkward clumps. She turned to Jemina. “This is really good.”

The smiles lit up on the Ishvalan women’s faces, Elder Jemina laughing with joy as she pat Mus’ab’s back out of rough fondness. “I give you my blessing too, Brother!”

Mus’ab didn’t hesitate to reach over for a plate. “Thank you for this meal, Elder Jemina. I will cherish it.”

“Of course you will, you’re too kind!”

Following a quick prayer, everyone sat down in the dining room and started to eat. The women encouraged Hawkeye to have a second helping, and Mus’ab closed his eyes, taking in each minute as if it were precious and serene. Instead of bloodshed or confusion, there was happiness. Happiness for just an ordinary piece of food.

Roy had no clue why he sat here among people he wished saw him as trash. Between the company of three Ishvalans and one Amestrian — one a partnered perpetrator of war, one a redeemed man of faith, and the rest victims of the Amestrian's own violence.

Roy had gotten the blessing of Elder Jemina. And the question of why was still there — dying frustratingly on his tongue as he surveyed the table.

Then at the untouched piece on his plate.

He grabbed the little cake between his fingers. It was a bit squishy, with enough push back to remain stable, sticking to his skin from the honey.

After a moment of silence, he took a bite from it, then shuddered at the taste in delight.

The syrup was rich on his tongue, and Roy couldn’t help but hum to himself as he took another bite, teeth breaking through the strong layering into the soft core of the basbousa’s cake. The almond softened under his teeth, and after a moment he had nothing left but a warm feeling pool in his chest, watching agape at the rest of the servings being piled onto the center, urging him to take another.

He had eaten pies, fritters, quiche, different kinds of pastries, and cuisines before — many of them just shitty renditions from the cafeteria or results of warmth in the kitchen. What Roy had on his plate was something different, and at that moment he watched the group of people in front of him ease up with sips of warm tea. 

Chatter had erupted again and all Roy could see were people. 

People who were brought together by a simple treat regardless of difference, regardless of transgressions, talking and discussing as if the past were nothing but simple and forgettable.

As if....

_“And food is important to who we are as a people. It’s what makes the Holy Land our home.”_

Ah.

He now understood what Mus’ab meant.

Roy didn’t hesitate to take another bite.


End file.
